Draco Demon
by agentgrrrl
Summary: When Draco finds and releases a demon, he can finally show up Harry Potter. But as the demon takes over Draco finds out that he was too mean and nasty for anyone to notice the difference. Incomplete.
1. The Glass Jar.

Notes: Here is one of my new stories that has been plaguing me for awhile and finally pushed itself in front of my other stories, demanding to be written. This hasn't been proofed or checked by anyone but myself so it might be a little rough in spots and may change over time. But I thought you guys would like to see what been taking up most of my spare time. ^_^ Disclaimer at the bottom of the page, basically I don't own the Harry Potter characters.   
  
  
  
  


**Draco Demon**  
Part 1: The Glass Jar.

  
When I was little, lurking around the huge Malfoy manor was my way of having a good time. The rooms never seemed to end and I could never explore them all.   
  
There was always something new to be found and new adventures to be had. Even when my father warned me about cursed objects and all of the rooms that were off-limits, I never worried. Feeling protected by the manor I had no fear of what I did or found.   
  
But I should have been more careful. I guess I just wasn't expecting to find a demon hiding in plain sight. Of course at the time I didn't even know what it was. Sure my father had shown me plenty of dark arts but somehow I had never really paid much attention to the whole demon thing. They were dangerous and you could summon them to help you for a price that was usually too high. But I didn't know that sometimes they were sealed away in the most innocent of objects. I also didn't realize just how hard it was to resist them.   
  
I found the glass jar one day in one of the cabinets in an unused part of the kitchen. It had a layer of dust on it that made me think it had been there forever. I don't know what made me brush off the dust and pick it up for a better look. I'd like to think that maybe I felt something or was influenced somehow but I was probably, just curious and careless.   
  
It seemed pretty normal. It was a small jar that was square in shape and about five inches tall. It could fit in the palm of my hand. Inside it held smoke of all different colors that changed randomly. The only thing weird about it was that the stopper was made of gold. And the jar could talk.   
  
//I can make your dreams, real.//   
  
I think that should have been the point that I put the jar back where I had found it but for some reason I didn't. I also didn't take it to my father, I didn't think about it, really. I just took it up stairs and put it in my room. I studied it for awhile; I looked through my books and sneaked around my father's library looking for any mention of what was inside the jar. And everyday when I picked it up it would speak to me.   
  
//Whatever you want, I can give it to you.//   
  
By that time I think it was already too late for me. Still I'd listen to the jar and it would talk to me. Little things at first. But it seemed to become more loquacious the longer I kept it.   
  
//I can help you become the best. Do whatever you desire.//   
  
Days passed and I found that I couldn't just hide it again and walk away. I HAD to take it out and look at it each a day. I had to. I wondered, would it stop? I also wondered if maybe it was a fake, a joke.   
  
//With me on your side, the people who stand in your way would be nothing but amusing clowns to be ridiculed and laughed at.//   
  
But it started to tell me things, little things it knew. And I guess I started to see the possibilities of its promises.   
  
//I could help you defeat him. I could help you make him the laughing stock of the school. With me, you could triumph against the Potter boy on the Quidditch field. You would be a hero.//   
  
I was taken with its offer to shame Potter. But part of me was still wary and so I asked it my own question, "How do you know all of this?" And it didn't answer.   
  
I held the small jar for over an hour waiting for that strange low voice to answer my question but it did not. I figured it hadn't heard me or maybe that it had said all it would for today. So I waited for tomorrow, wondering if it would actually answer.   
  
But when tomorrow came and I held the jar it still said nothing. I asked it again and again. I waited for it to speak but still it remained silent.   
  
I was furious. How dare this piece of glass and smoke defy me! How dare it tell me nothing! I was Draco Malfoy and it was only a small glass jar. I wanted to throw it, to break it, to destroy it. And I tried, with all of my might. But it wouldn't break. Not even when, with frustrated fury I threw it against the far wall of my room. It remained unbroken and as silent as before.   
  
So I left it there and went out to salvage the day. Only I couldn't stop thinking about it, even as I tried everything I knew of to distract me. I tried to concentrate on other things, my schoolwork, plans to get back at people, lurking though the unused rooms for other weird things. But the mystery of the jar kept returning to taunt me.   
  
I went back and forth with myself. On one hand I thought it was someone's idea of a very bad joke and if I found out whom, they would pay. My dad might have overlooked the whole demon thing but he'd taught me plenty about getting revenge. And I was sure that when caught, the joker who'd enchanted the talking jar wouldn't like the feeling of every nerve on their body screaming in pain.   
  
On the other hand I wondered if it was powerful enough to give me an actual edge over Potter. Something of my own. My secret weapon since I doubted that anyone else had a talking magical jar that made promises of power.   
  
And I really, really wanted to get back at Potter. He sure was such a nice and caring young man who thought he was so much better then everyone else. Hmph, as if. It always galled me how he was so blatantly hypocritical. "Look I'm Potter. I'm the 'boy who lived' I'm such a nice guy." I'd gotten Potter mad enough before to know that he was not the nice helpful guy people seem to think he is. Sure he would help people but only when it suited his fancy. I had offered my friendship to him but he was so rude. Turning my help down flat and I was only trying to save him from his inability to make good friends. That is, what father says Hogwarts is for really, "The accumulation of contacts that will help you advance yourself to a position of power or luxury." Really, where was Potter going to go with the Weasley boy and that mudblood girl? Tsk, I almost felt embarrassed for him.   
  
Although he was a pretty good wizard and he did argue quite convincingly, almost as good as I did, I still hated his guts. Everything he did worked for him. Even when he broke the rules and anyone else would have been in serious trouble; he still managed to land on his feet.   
  
I wanted him to fail.   
  
I guess that was my mistake in the long run, being tempted by what the blasted thing could do for me. I should have asked more questions, I should have taken it to my father, or I should have thrown the horrid thing into a volcano. But I was always willing to do whatever it took to get what I wanted whether it was the right thing or not. And with revenge I tended to be only more tenacious especially when it involved Potter. It seems all sense of self-preservation goes completely out the window when he's involved.   
  
But I didn't know any of that at the time, too dedicated to the idea of hurting Potter to take into account that it hadn't asked for anything in return. Nothing is really free. I should have been more guarded.   
  
The next day I took it out again and held it with destine, looking it over. Nothing had changed, it was still silent. And again I thought about destroying it. But then it spoke to me.   
  
//Whatever you want I can give it to you.//   
  
That was the same thing it had told me the first time.   
  
"What do I have to do?" I asked without thinking, happy that it was back to talking. I wanted to beat Potter and if this thing could help me I was willing to do anything. I waited afraid it wasn't going to tell me. Afraid I'd missed my chance.   
  
//You must open this jar.//   
  
My relief was overpowering. "How do I that?"   
  
//Find a knife of silver and pale of milk.//   
  
"What do I do with them?" I was confused. It didn't sound quite right but I couldn't put my finger on why. I waited for an answer but the jar had gone silent, again. Only this time it was different, as if the air around me was expectant. So after waiting a little while, and hearing nothing else, I put the jar back away and went looking.   
  
Neither item would be hard to find in the huge Malfoy manor but both were a little strange. I'd have to be careful not to arouse interest. My family was most annoying in its curiosity.   
  
~~~~   
  
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. (it's true)   
  



	2. Poetry.

Notes: Hello, Happy Holidays. So this is the second part this story and judging by how far I've gotten into the plot this story will take forever to finish... But I'm going to try my best. Things will get darker as it goes along but so far it's kind of light and cheerful. It'll get worst for Draco. Believe me! Special hugs go out to Blackswan15 (lodestar) for helping me beta the story, Thanks for poking at it! ^_^ Disclaimer at the bottom of the page, basically I don't own the Harry Potter characters. Also the poetry used here doesn't belong to me but to Emily Dickinson, I claim no credit.   
  
  
  
  


**Draco Demon**  
Part 2: Poetry.

  
I headed for the kitchen, hoping to make it there without being stopped. But my luck did not hold and my mother caught up with me on the way.   
  
Her beautiful blond hair was swept up and away from her face, immaculate as always. She sliped gracefully into step with me and we walked along in companionable silence. I looked over at her and watched as she pursed her lips contemplating her thoughts.   
  
I waited for her to speak as we walked together down the long hall. When we arrived at the end of the hall, I turned to the left to continue my walk. But she reached out a manicured hand and stopped me. I looked at her and was stuck again at how short she seemed now a days. I had grown taller at Hogwarts and returned home to find that I could almost look my parents in the eyes.   
  
"Draco, I wish to ask you something."   
  
"Yes mother?"   
  
She preened the sleeve of her dress. "Have you given any thought to what you'd like do when you leave Hogwarts?"   
  
That had not been what I'd expected. "I thought I would be following Dad..."   
  
"Are you prepared to do that?"   
  
Is this a test? Was he testing my loyalty to him by asking Mom to question me? I had no problem with helping Voldemort. It was what I wanted, proud to know that Dad trusted me and wanted me by his side. I was certain that I would serve Lord Voldemort and uphold the family name. But under my mother's apprising gaze I faltered, unsure of whether I SHOULD say anything. But she continued oblivious... or maybe aware of my confusion.   
  
"I mean, do you have anything YOU want to do?"   
  
That took me back, and I found I didn't know how to answer her. Father never asked me these types of questions. He was very strict and always pushing me to do my best and make my family proud. I was taught to be a 'Malfoy' no matter what. But he didn't question what I thought or felt. Mom was the one who would take me aside, worry about me, and ask how I was feeling.   
  
She questioned me.   
  
At the time I didn't even know what she meant. I wanted to follow my father's footsteps, to be respected and feared, to prove myself. I didn't think I even had any dreams of my own, then. I stared at her and she must have seen something in my face, for she reached out and touched me her expression almost sad.   
  
"Its ok. Don't worry about it, I'm sure you'll make us very proud." She turned from me her dress swirling around her legs as she walked toward the far corridor.   
  
"Yes, mother." I said to her withdrawing form. Although I couldn't shake the feeling that I had failed some sort of new test I don't even know existed. I watched her glide down the hall, but right before she would have turned the corner she swung back around. Her crystalline voice floating out to me across the long hallway.   
  
"Don't forget Draco, your father is returning from his business trip tonight, you may want to tidy up."   
  
Then without another word, she turned and walked away.   
  
"Yes mother." I said to the vast empty hall. Sighing I ran a hand through my hair feeling a little... lost. It was not a comforting feeling. So I pushed the turmoil away with a shake of my head. Trying to figure her questions out always made my head hurt. She was there for me and listened to me, but... she usually raised more questions then she answered.   
  
I never notice this quality about her until the day I asked about poetry.   
  
Poetry was always my bane. My tutors talked about it as if it held all of the meaning of the world. Only I could never seem to see what was so great about it.   
  
So I ask my mother since she seemed to know everything. I handed her my book and waited. She opened it to the middle and read from the first poem she saw.   
  
"Because I could not stop for Death,  
he kindly stopped for me;..."   
  
Turning an appraising eye on me she stopped to inspect the book. Finding all to be in order she closed the book and handed it back to me. She seemed about ready to go back to her setting of the dinning room until I interrupted her again.   
  
"What does it mean?" I said, unhappy to be asking for help, even for something this minor.   
  
She looked down at me. "Do you understand them?"   
  
"Sort of, they're different stories about this woman and all the little things in her life. But, what do they mean? Why did she write them? They sort of make sense only, they don't."   
  
"They're poems, Draco," she said. "They're nebulous. The meaning can be different for each person. It all depends on how much importance and insight they hold for you."   
  
"But how can they do that? I mean they're just stories, they can only mean certain things."   
  
"You'll see, Draco. Right now it may seem strange but you'll understand in time."   
  
"Why can't you tell me now?"   
  
"It's always better to figure out difficult things for your self," and that was the end of her discussion on poetry. It was the first time I really felt that she wasn't answering my question so much as bringing up other things for me to ponder.   
  
Dad on the other hand, was always so much more straightforward about things. So I asked him about poetry too, unsatisfied with Mom's cryptic response.   
  
I handed him the book and he did just as Mom had, flipping to some random page and reading the first poem he came across.   
  
"I'm nobody! Who are you?  
Are you a nobody, too?..."   
  
But unlike Mom who seemed to treat the poems like my tutors, my Dad only laughed.   
  
"Is this what your being taught by those pathetic teachers your Mom insists on hiring? I'll have a talk with them. You would be better served learning things you can actually use, like spells, charms, and curses."   
  
I felt relieved that father found poetry laughable. I had the same reaction when my tutors first showed me the book. But I was still curious, what was all the fuss about? "They keep saying I don't understand them."   
  
"Of course they do." My father smirked and leaned down conspiratorially. "Draco, listen, let me tell you a secret. These poems that seem so hard to figure out, they can mean whatever you want."   
  
I must have looked like someone had punched me, my dad continued. "All you have to do is back up your idea. Look for all of the parts that support your interpretation and use them to prove you're right."   
  
He handed my book back. "Usually so long as you argue well enough, you can make them believe that the poem means nearly anything."   
  
"Really?"   
  
"It's only words," and with that he went back to his work.   
  
So I tried his suggestion, I found it worked remarkably well. I actually enjoyed learning poetry if only for the confrontation of ideas that ensued. Unfortunately, I wasn't taught much poetry after my dad's 'talk' with my tutors. But while it lasted I had piles of fun convincing them of my nonsensical meanings.   
  
With a shake of my head I dismissed the strange nostalgic meandering of my thoughts. A conversation with Mom was a lot like poetry, a battlefield of meanings. Most of the time I just followed Dad's advice.   
  
She had to be testing me.   
  
I abandoned my path and headed back to my rooms. Dad would be home for dinner and I wanted to hear what new developments had sprung up. And whether or not I'd be getting a new broom this year.   
  
I hoped he wouldn't complain, again, about how my grades were lower then that mudblood, Granger. SHE didn't practice 2-4 hours most nights for Quidditch games. And well, she HAD to study so she could make up for her lack of natural ability and breeding. Filthy mudblood.   
  
I should look around for that book Dad had hidden somewhere, the one that never ends. That would keep her from studying her muddy brains out all the time.   
  
Thinking pleasant thoughts of sabotaging Potter's friends I went back up to my room and changed for supper. There was no use in trying to find the two items to open the jar now. Mother would have the kitchen full of servants and house elves.   
  
I'd have to wait till after dinner to get them.   
  
~~~~   
  
Thanks to Sam and blackswan15 (lodestar) for reviewing the last chapter I know that I move like really slow but I'll try harder. =)   
  
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. (it's true)   
  



End file.
